


Make a Fool of Somebody

by chantefable



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 14:50:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5052910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/pseuds/chantefable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who could feel lonely under the beautiful blue of Peruvian skies.</p><p>(Everyone assumes that Napoleon Solo is a beta and Illya Kuryakin is an alpha. This is just an assumption, and not fact.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make a Fool of Somebody

Illya doesn’t like to think about Solo dying. This is both logical and illogical. 

Logical because it won’t do for an agent to enjoy thinking about death: attention to detail is necessary for clean work, yes, but getting enjoyment from gore is an excessively personal approach and, frankly, a perversion. An agent has to have a clear head. Ready, steady, business-like. In and out with no fuss.

Besides, Solo is a partner. That implies a degree of trust, working shoulder to shoulder. Of course a partner is better alive than dead.

But it’s also illogical because in their line of work, people die left, right, and center, and both Illya and Solo know this. It is reasonable to assume that an agent will die sooner rather than later. And Illya himself, for instance, would rather die in the field, choking on his own blood with a clear visual on a partner who’s completing the mission objective or getting to safety, rather than, say, be forced to swallow a cyanide capsule or get gassed in his sleep. The first option seems less lonely.

But when it comes to Solo, Illya recoils from the thought of holding his clammy hand until his heart stops, or worse, having to watch his lifeless body crumple to the ground where Illya cannot reach. Even though Illya would expect Solo to do that, and he even said it out loud once, staring at Solo’s face through the warm haze of fatigue and the transparent glass of a half-full bottle of vodka.

Therefore, Illya must conclude that his attitude is more illogical than logical. He perceives it as a personal flaw, tries to rectify it, but nothing works.

Thinking about Solo dying continues to be repellant in a very personal way. 

Illya tries to figure out why. He thinks about it dozing in the backseat of a tiny Volkswagen as they drive from Alsace to Burgundy; he thinks about it staring at the wobbling belly fat of a corrupt Dutch official through the scope of his rifle; he thinks about it for the entire duration of a direct flight from Cairo to Dover courtesy of the British Air Force while Solo and Teller nap in their creased clothes, wearing matching blissful expressions.

That last one makes some slow insights crystallize in Illya’s brain. There is something wholesome, oddly bright within both of them, and Illya would argue with himself that they’re both mean, deceitful bastards, but – it’s true. They have strong cores that nonetheless give a strange, vulnerable shine. And Illya knows that Solo is a beta, not an omega like Teller, and he’s grown up expected to be made of sterner stuff where Teller showing sharp claws and teeth must have been perceived as a challenge to everything and everyone. But sometimes, when he’s asleep like this, Illya is tempted to call Solo delicate. Almost omegaesque, the way he radiates warmth like a hearth. Of course, Illya likes his teeth in his mouth, and he’d give anyone a good taste of his knuckles if they said something like that about _him_ , so he keeps quiet out of solidarity, one beta to another. And yet. Solo _is_ like a bright, cozy fire sometimes.

And yes, Illya shouldn’t have stayed up and drunk alone on that flight from Cairo to Dover, but the point still stands.

It’s just not right for Solo to die, not if someone else can die first. Like Illya.

Illya himself is a beta through and through; he’d known it even before puberty, when his hormonal profile settled. He’s always felt average, typical – stereotypical, even – wanted to go in a beta profession, something dull requiring patience, attention, and durability. Something physical and technical. His is a big country, plenty of factories, plants, not to mention construction sites requiring a sturdy, diligent beta.

But Illya is not only a beta but also his father’s son; subsequently, a wayward child requiring the watchful gaze of the People's Commissariat for Internal Affairs to make sure his core is pure for the motherland and not rotten by association. 

He went to a small school in a quiet provincial town, played chess and stood at the very back of his pioneer unit, furthest from the rising flag they saluted. In case the red banner was tainted by his traitorous parentage, probably. And he grew big, very big, taller and wider in the shoulders than a regular beta his age, then larger than an average alpha. The right people had already noticed by then and became interested. He went to the right school for the right kind of boys and girls then, robust, attentive alphas and betas who, when someone said ‘jump’, jumped very high, no questions asked.

And that’s how Illya didn’t get to be a small-time engineer or a factory worker.

He’s aware that he often passes for an alpha. Illya had frequently outdone them at the academy, was readily assigned missions requiring strength and speed. He’s no worse than any of them when it counts, and privately, Illya thinks he’s really better than most. 

Sure, alphas are… expeditious. Brutal. The necessary kind of ruthless, usually. But they’re also narcissists for the most part, preening and territorial. It’s a vulnerability. Really, Illya doesn’t understand why everyone else doesn’t think so, why an alpha is likelier to rise through the ranks or to be put in charge on a job.

Bollocks.

Illya has considered sharing this thought with Solo a couple times, but it keeps popping into his head at inopportune moments: when they’re running from a pack of hungry Dobermans across open ground, dodging bullets or speeding on a catamaran in danger of falling apart under them – not exactly the right moment to bump shoulders and say, ‘hey, partner, we’re betas, we’re better’. Especially since every part of Illya that is not focused on their surroundings and on making his body work like a machine is busy making sure that Solo doesn’t die.

Illya doesn’t pray because there is no god. But he’s thinking very hard. Don’t die, Solo.

Solo, the fucking piece of shit, doesn’t listen.

He’s hunched against the wall in a grimy alley in Lima, gurgling on blood and staring at Illya with too bright eyes. Illya can only think that he’s pressing on Solo’s wound with both his hands, and has none to spare to grasp Solo’s ashen white palm.

“It’s all right, Peril,” he drawls haltingly, American vowels grating as usual. But Illya would very much like to hear them again.

“Shhh, Cowboy. Hold still.” Illya is applying more pressure on the wound, trying to force what he means to say into Solo’s body by touch alone: ‘We’re betas, remember, we’re tough, sturdy, reliable, we weather things out where others break. You’ll pull through, partner.’

But Solo just gives him a pained smile, lips glistening with blood.

“’S all right,” he says, quieter than Illya has ever heard him. “Was bound to happen one day. There’s always someone younger, faster out there. Cocky types like us, we come with an expiry date. Born as cannon fodder.” Solo’s smile is wan and his eyes are tired, trusting. “Well, not you, Peril. You’re the kind of alpha that mothers warn about.” 

Illya chokes and stares helplessly. That warm, delicate flame is fading in Solo’s robust, perfect, _alpha_ body before his very eyes.

“Absolutely hated working with you, Peril.”

Illya watches pallor take over Solo’s face until his handsome tanned skin looks distinctly green. And Illya’s fingers are slick with blood.

Illya has never thought –

He just – didn’t.

“You’re a terrible spy, Cowboy.”

Who could feel lonely under the beautiful blue of Peruvian skies.


End file.
